Behind the Green Door
by thewickednix
Summary: In the midst of the Second War, Draco Malfoy witnesses his father's capture of Harry Potter. Draco is given a mission: to watch the Boy Who Lived. But in the dungeons of Malfoy Manor, something besides hate and enmity is born between two desperate souls.
1. Part I

**Title:** Behind the Green Door  
**Author: **thewickednix  
**Pairing: **Harry Potter/ Draco Malfoy  
**Rating:** NC-17  
**Categories: **Slash  
**Warnings: **Dark, Coarse Language, Sexual Situations, Violence

**Summary: **In the midst of the Second Wizarding War, Draco Malfoy witnesses his father's capture of Harry Potter. Draco is given a mission: to watch the Boy Who Lived. But in the dungeons of Malfoy Manor, something besides hate and enmity is born between two desperate souls.

_DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. _

**Part I**

As a child, I had often wondered if perhaps God actually existed. If maybe, like the unicorns and pixies of my reality are a mere dream to Muggles, maybe their 'God' seems like just a folly to wizards only? Maybe there truly is a God?

Of course, ignorant as I was as a child, I had only ever asked God for the purification of the world. I had asked Him to rid the world of Muggles and blood traitors, so that perhaps my existence would be easier. So that perhaps Father could be a happier man.

I highly doubt that he would've been.

But like a being of dust and smoke, this 'God'-person has remained a mystery to me. As a child I had wondered why He didn't attempt to make the world a better place. Now, I can only hope that he doesn't. For now I realise that I am the vermin of this earth, my kind is the plague that must be cleaned out.

But as much as I realise that my place in this world is of the lowest kind, I still cannot deny it. Like a true creature of the underworld, I am drawn to the darkness, finding it impossible to leave it. Something about being a part of that hidden society, possessing those traits that so very few of us are honoured to inherit... It draws me in, and I cannot pull away,

In truth, I can't say that I want to.

Even as I am forced to watch a beaten and bloody Potter being dragged into one of the cells in the dungeon, I feel little remorse. He kicks and screams, trying desperately to escape the forceful grips Nott and Rowle have on him. Father sighs exasperatedly, casting me a sideward glance.

"Such a pathetic display. No dignity at all." The words sound as a warning, telling me to never, _ever_ act with such classlessness if I were to be captured.

I nod, agreeing not only to the matter of Potter, but also reassuring Father that his point is made perfectly clear. "What can one expect? After all, Potter _was _raised by Muggles."

Lucius snorts with appreciation, a thin smile appearing on his grim face. He opens his mouth to answer, but Potter's shouts cut off whatever he was going to say. As if he has finally had enough of Potter's demeanour, he raises his wand and with a swift spell knocks Potter unconscious.

Nott and Rowle exit the cell, leaving the Boy Who Lived sprawled on the floor. Father nods approvingly, before turning to me.

"You know your job, Draco."

I nod curtly, and remain watching as Lucius turns away and stalks out through the door, Nott and Rowle at his heels. I sigh deeply, turning to look at the boy in the cell.

Potter is lying indignantly on the floor, his oversized jeans covered with grime and his Gryffindor-red sweater ripped and stained with his own blood. His glasses have ended up in the corner of the cell, but have somehow remained intact. Somehow he looks really vulnerable without them. Or maybe it's just that he is trapped in a dungeon that produces such an image.

Moving to lock the cell door, I take a good look around the dungeon. The air is thick and musty, but at least the room in itself isn't particularly dirty. Sure, a little mould and grime here and there, but that's all part of the subtle charm of dungeons.

I turn to the corner furthest away from the cell, producing a comfortable armchair and a small table with my wand. Sitting down, I light a candle and reach for the book in my pocket. Opening the copy of _Potion Prodigy: 1000 Ways to Exceed Yourself, _I lean back in the chair, sighing contently. If I have to stay here, I might as well be comfortable.

* * *

Potter stirs on the floor. He groans loudly, his breath somewhat laboured. From the pain, I imagine. I ignore him, continuing with my book, hearing him roam about for a couple of minutes.

"…Fuck." The word escapes him in a heavy breath, and I am finally forced to lift my concentration from the pages.

Potter has sat up, cradling his head in his hands. He must have gotten quite the blow to his skull when he fell to the ground. I soon grow bored of watching his grimaces, and try once again to continue reading.

"Where the fuck-?" he begins, and I look up to see him looking around the room. For a second I wonder why he hasn't spoken to me, before I realize he probably can't even see me.

"You might want to try putting your glasses on, that might answer a few questions," I drawl, extremely pleased with myself when Potter jumps at the sound of my voice.

"Malfoy?" he exclaims in an accusing, yet uncertain voice.

I snort. "Yes, Potter. Now please get those glasses of yours, so these inane questions might stop sometime tonight." I watch him hectically feel around himself on the floor, in a couple of minutes finally reaching out to the corner of the cell and clasping his hand around his glasses.

He puts them on, blinks in the still quite dim light, and turns to me. "It _is _you!" He spits the words out furiously, yet there is something resembling relief behind them.

"You don't say," I mutter, moving into a more comfortable position in my chair.

A silence follows as Potter regards his surroundings. "Where are we?" he asks tentatively, clearly uncertain. I leer at him, extremely pleased over this newfound power over the Golden Boy. Of all the times I have known myself to be his superior, this is the first time he has acknowledged it himself.

"Malfoy Manor. Where else?"

Another minute of silence. "Why are you here?"

I snort incredulously. "I live here, Potter."

He clearly doesn't find it funny. "Don't try to play games with me, Malfoy. Why are you _here_?"

Giving him a stern gaze, I nonchalantly turn my attention to the pages of my book. "The question you should be asking, Potter, is perhaps not why _I _am here, but why _you_ are."

My words keep him silent for a long time. I imagine he is reliving the past day as he remembers it. Why he actually is here, I have no idea. For some reason the Dark Lord seemed it to be unfit to just kill him, and he was brought here. Maybe he is to be some kind of trophy when we win the war, who knows.

Why I am here, is a completely different matter. One Potter shouldn't feel himself concerned with.

"How much time do I have before he is going to kill me?" Potter suddenly asks, and I am taken aback by his forwardness. For the first time in my life, I realise that contrary to what I had believed, Harry Potter does realise his own mortality, and is fully ready to face it. Some new found respect for the Boy Hero rises within me, and I feel almost sorry that I cannot give him a proper answer.

"I honestly do not know," I answer truthfully, and Potter seems to believe me. He only nods, finally rising from the floor and lying down on the small bed in the cell.

"It can't be too long now," he sighs.

* * *

"Do you mind, Potter? This just got interesting."

"Oh, I am truly sorry to have disturbed your little reading session, Malfoy." He sneers at me, ludicrously trying to resemble some kind of threat. When I don't react, he snaps. "Have you no fucking humanity at all? I am asking you about my friends!" He stands at the bars, hands wrapped around them, knuckles turning white in rage. "How can you be such a heartless bastard? If you were in my place, wouldn't you want to know that Crabbe and Goyle are alright?"

Without Potter's knowledge, his words turn into knives in my chest. I lower my book onto my knees, slowly turning my gaze to Potter. "One of the Weasley twins died. As did the werewolf. I believe that the Mudblood and your little girlfriend survived. I don't know about the Weasel." I hiss the words through clenched teeth, sneering viciously at Potter.

He stands paralyzed for a moment, taking in the words, before sliding down the bars onto his knees on the floor. "Oh God… Remus," he whispers, his lower lip trembling.

I watch Potter in disgust. I don't believe I have ever hated him as much as I do right now. Before I can stop myself, I have opened my mouth to speak again. "What became of _my_ friends, Potter, is a quite different matter. Crabbe was killed in a raid three months ago." My mouth grows dry, but I continue. "Goyle committed suicide soon after."

I don't know why I spoke at all. Certainly not for sympathy, who the hell would feel sorry for a Death Eater?

Definitely not Potter.

"Fuck you, Malfoy!" he bursts, standing up and shaking the bars in front of him. "What are you pulling, trying to score sympathy points from me? Well fat chance!" Potter exclaims, his green eyes alight with rage. "It's your own fault that-" He stops, realizing that he has gone too far.

"You're saying that it's only fair?" I hiss, rising to my feet and approaching the cell slowly. "It's fair because they were evil, right? Evil, because they sided with the Dark Lord? Evil, because they were sixteen years old and led by what their entire world was about?" I grit through clenched teeth, stopping right in front of Potter. He fidgets under my gaze, but doesn't look away.

"It was their own choice," he mumbles, swallowing loudly.

"They _had_ no choice," I sneer at the dark-haired boy, fighting myself not to curse him. "They were children who did for their leader what any of your lot would have done for Dumbledore."

"Don't you dare say his name!" Potter spits at me from behind the bars, his green eyes piercing me. He draws in a deep breath. "What are you saying, Malfoy? That you are all just misled children who shouldn't be held responsible for their actions?" he sneers sardonically.

I am just about to hit him, but his suddenly his emerald eyes hold such power that I am momentarily taken aback. How Potter manages to overwhelm me, even when he stands trapped behind bars, I will never know. Nevertheless, I back down.

"We are not _misled_. You have the right to hold us responsible and think that we are wrong." I take a step back, gazing at Potter with tired rage. I know that whatever I say, he will never be able understand. But I have to say the words out loud, even if just because Potter is a narrow-minded, self-centred, self-righteous bastard.

"But don't you ever again try to tell me that we don't have the same fucking right as you do to mourn our losses," I hiss, narrowing my eyes at Potter. I spit at him. "And never, _ever_ tell me that it's _justice _that we have to watch our friends die!"

As I turn away, Potter mumbles something that could've been an apology.

**End of part ****I**


	2. Part II

-1

**Part II **

"Why are you doing this?"

I look over at Potter, his features barely visible in the dark room. He is lying on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, exactly in the same position he has remained in for the past three hours. He doesn't move an inch, and for a minute I'm uncertain if he actually spoke or if it's just all in my head.

Luckily my hesitation provokes him.

"Did you hear me?" he asks, raising himself onto his elbows and staring at me, his green eyes glistening in the darkness.

I nod stiffly. "I did," I murmur, raising an eyebrow. "I do not, however, know what you are talking about."

Potter grunts, irritated. "Don't be an idiot, Malfoy. I should think feigning ignorance would be beneath you." He grins playfully, and for a second his face is completely without hostility. Then he seems to remember whom he is talking to, and the expression disappears.

I sigh wearily. "What exactly is it that you want to know, Potter?"

"Why are you here?" The question erupts from his lips immediately. "Don't you have a choice?"

I raise an eyebrow at Potter, fighting the urge to snort. No, I do not have a choice, but that is much beside the point. "Oh, please!" I drawl, gazing around the room in ennui. "I wouldn't have thought you to be one of those to make this about me being only a child whose mind has been poisoned by his notoriously evil father. Really, Potter. Pathetic."

I don't have to look at Potter to know that he has an embarrassed blush on his face. "I wasn't!" he mutters, but the disappointment is obvious behind his flustered irritation. I do not even bother to stifle a sardonic huff.

Potter looks at me with a peeved expression, but for once he seems able to let it go. He sighs heavily, standing up from the bed and stretching his arms above his head. His thin sweater climbs his stomach, and in spite of myself I feel my eyes drawn to the dark patch of hair disappearing from his navel down to...

For no reason at all, my mouth suddenly feels very dry.

Mere seconds later Potter lowers his hands, the shirt coming down to cover his abdomen once more. Self-consciously I shake my head slightly, trying to distance my thoughts from the unexpected distraction.

_What are you doing, Draco? Get a grip!  
_  
As I look over at Potter again, he is staring back with a peculiar expression. I can't help but feel disconcerted, as if I've been caught doing something I really shouldn't. My aggravation increases at the thought of that git Potter being able to make me, a Malfoy, feel abashed.

I open my mouth to tell him off royally once and for all, but I am caught off as the house elf Tilby suddenly Apparates into the room with a loud pop. She bows at me, a silver tray with cover in hand.

"Harry Potter's food, s-sir," she stammers, face turned towards the floor.

"Just leave it there," I mutter, offhandedly gesturing for her to leave. Tilby lowers the tray onto the floor and Disapparates swiftly.

"Lunch?" Potter enquires, and I sneer at the Gryffindor.

Slowly getting up from the chair, I stalk over to the tray on the floor. Lifting the heavy tray, I peek under the cover.

"Idiots," I mutter, taking the cover off completely.

"What?" Potter asks, as if his greatest worry right now is the fear of not being fed. He begins to approach the bars swiftly, but he only has time to take a few steps before I produce my wand from my pocket, and he freezes mid-movement.

I snort at his ridiculousness for thinking I would curse him. Well, on the other hand, I might, if I were allowed. I aim my wand at the tray, not at him. He watches with knitted brows as I Transfigure the small glass on the tray into a tin cup. "Those morons brought a fucking glass in here," I mumble, turning towards the cell. "Must I do _everything_ by myself?" Producing a small trapdoor at the foot of the bars, I push the tray in through it and quickly Transfigure the bars back to normal. "Enjoy your meal," I drawl.

Potter is still watching me cautiously, and doesn't approach the tray on the floor before I have taken a seat in my chair again. Lifting up the tray, he looks around himself. "Would a table and a chair be too much to ask?" he enquires. I respond to his failed attempt at humour with silence, hoping to be able to wrap my mind around a Potions text while Potter eats.

Hoping to be able to forget the slip of my self-restraint just now.

Unfortunately, Potter is not easy to block out.

"What is this shit? I thought what I'd gotten so far was bad, but _this_…" the Gryffindor mutters, the metallic sound of his spoon poking the bottom of the plate echoing in the closed space. I feel my patience wearing thin, but I fight to keep myself concentrated on my book.

_'The therapeutic properties of bindweed are wide known, but the plant's voluble stem also has purgative and cholagogic properties, as well as- ' _

"Is it porridge? Soup? Some kind of strange gruel?"

I grit my teeth, forcing myself to keep my eyes on the page. _Concentrate, Draco. Now where were we? Oh yes… 'The funnel-shaped flowers can be used to replace dove's hearts in diverse potions such as Sleeping Draught- '  
_  
"Bugger me, I do think that's a piece of gherkin! Who puts gherkin in gruel?"

_Fuck it._

"Potter!" I explode, doing everything I can to prevent myself from throwing the book at the preposterous idiot in the cell. "Do you _mind_?"

Potter looks at me, first in surprise at my outburst, then in irritation. "God, Malfoy. I'm fucking being held prisoner! Allow me some amusement, will you? Even if it may be talking to myself, as you _clearly_ aren't here to provide me with entertainment." He turns back to his plate, exasperatedly scooping down the supposed gruel.

I sigh out in relief, focusing on the text on bindweed. Surprisingly enough, Potter's silence draws out. Every other minute I expect to hear some inane comment, but all I hear is the sound of his spoon poking at the plate. After a couple minutes I can no longer concentrate on the text, I only wait for Potter to speak again.

When he doesn't, but simply returns to the bed and lies down quietly, I feel the need to scream.

No. What I _need_ is professional help. Merlin, these dungeons are getting to me.

* * *

The next morning I wake up late with the most intense hard-on I've experienced since the war began. And definitely the most disturbing one.

Crawling out of bed, I hurry into the bathroom and step in under a very cold shower. Making _very _sure not to touch myself, in case my mind would wander off into undesired directions.

Father meets me in the hallway, looking disdainfully at my poor posture and sour face. "Do try to make yourself look a little more presentable, Draco. That is not befitting."

I nod. "Yes, Father." I straighten out my back, a tiny voice in the back of my head asking why I must look presentable when I am only to spend a twelve-hour shift watching Potter roll his thumbs in the dungeons.

"Oh, and, son," Father calls after me as I have already passed him.

I turn back. "Yes?"

"Remember that we are having dinner with the Greengrass family tonight at eight. I asked our Lord to make Theodore take the last hours of your shift." He gives me a pointed look that says 'Do not be late!' and continues down the hall. I only dare to sigh when he has closed the door to his office behind him.

Fuck. As if this day wasn't bad enough to begin with.

"Wow. Someone is in a pleasant mood today," Potter scoffs sarcastically as I slam the dungeon door shut behind me.

"Shut up, Potter," I sneer, falling into the chair and rubbing my fingers against my temples. I feel a terrible migraine coming on.

It is in days such as this one that I feel less privileged with my status as a pureblood.

_"We are having dinner with the Greengrass family," _

Translation: "You are to entertain the Greengrasses, and be at your best behaviour, especially to their daughter."

I understand the necessity of the marriage. With the Wizarding world going down the drain, pureblood marriages have to be continued. And I accept that, just like any proper Malfoy.

But why must it be sodding Astoria Greengrass? Merlin, that girl is such a brainless twit. Granted, she has more wit than her sister Queenie, but nonetheless. I'll be damned if that girl even passes her NEWTs.

On the other hand, getting married to me, she won't need an education. Her lack of one may even further enrich her, when I commit suicide at the lack of intellectual company.

"So, what's up?" Potter inquires, breaking my concentration bubble again. He paces the cell back and forth, like a tiger caught in a cage. Somehow the image befits him very well.

"Bad day?"

In spite of myself, I sigh. "You have no idea."

A cynical bark escapes Potter, and it's a sound I don't like at all. "Yes, Malfoy, because_ your _life is sooo awful compared to mine right now!"

"Stop complaining, Potter," I sneer, watching Potter raise a vexed eyebrow at me. "You get fed properly, and you haven't been tortured once. That should be more than enough reason for you to be grateful and keep your mouth _shut_."

Potter casts me a deadly glare, and I hear a low mutter escape his lips.

"…Define 'properly'."

**End of part II **


	3. Part III

**Part III**

"Rook to F5."

"Pawn to C4," Potter mumbles, brow furrowed in concentration. Then he looks up at me, blinks. "So, how was last night?"

I take a minute to consider. Last night was much like expected. Tiresome, dreadful, alarmingly dull; I was being watched by my father the entire evening, while I was trying to court the most uninteresting woman in the entire Wizarding world. And of course the whole ordeal was highlighted by the constant background noise of Mother and Mrs Greengrass' exuberant wedding plans. It was positively atrocious.

Naturally, I would never tell Potter that.

"Lovely," I answer instead, gazing at the chessboard. "Bishop to E7." I cast a look in Potter's direction. "Why do you ask, anyway? Missed me?" I add in a sing-song voice as an afterthought, wishing I hadn't immediately after my words leave my mouth.

"Tremendously," Potter mutters sardonically, watching the board intently. Too intently. "Nott is a bore. And a bitch. At least with you I get to play chess," he scoffs, looking up at me with a slight grin. "Knight to C5."

I snort. "Potter, your chess-playing is abominable. Bishop to C5." I feel a tinge of delight at watching the little chess piece break the other and throw it off the board.

"Fuck you," he grumbles morosely, eyeing his smashed knight in annoyance. "You refused to play Exploding Snap."

"Honestly, Potter! I haven't played Exploding Snap since I was twelve," I drawl, leaning back in my chair. Not to mention if we were to play Exploding Snap, I'd be forced to actually sit close to Potter. This way I can just stand back and win from afar.

"Pawn to H4." Potter yawns, lying down on his stomach on the bed and peering at me. I feel a jolt go through me as my eyes wander to where his collarbones peek out from under his worn Muggle T-shirt. It takes a minute for me to realise that Potter is looking at me peculiarly. "Your move, Malfoy."

"I know that," I murmur exasperatedly, looking hastily over to the chessboard. It takes me exceptionally long to gather my thoughts and make my move. "Knight to A6."

Potter too takes long to ponder about his next move, which gives me a perfect opportunity to observe him. I have a hard time understanding how someone can be this positive, this _alive, _while being held hostage. He has been here for more than two weeks now, and not once after he was brought here have I seen him throw a real tantrum.

One would think I would be relieved that the prisoner I'm watching is behaving so well. But in truth, it just makes my life that much harder. When Potter isn't yelling and screaming at me, throwing punches and picking on me every second, I have no idea what to do with myself. And what bothers me most is to have to admit to myself that Potter's behaviour actually makes a difference to me.

"Malfoy, what is with you? It's your turn." Potter lifts an eyebrow humorously. "I thought I would be the one going nutters in this dungeon, but it seems you beat me to it."

_Touché._

"Pawn to B6," I hurry to say, wondering for a second if I could actually ask what I want to. "Potter?" I begin, in a far more tentative manner than I would have wanted.

"Hmmh?" Potter responds, looking up at me.

I take a minute to formulate the question. "Why aren't you more angry?" _Well, _that _sounded really sensible. _"Why aren't you furious, screaming and shouting and trying to throw your porridge at me?"

"Oh," Potter utters, his eyebrows almost reaching his hairline. He sits up on the bed, arms around his knees, head leaned back against the stone wall. "Well, Malfoy, you really are more of an imbecile than I'd thought if you think I'm not furious." He looks at me pointedly, and I try to not show my embarrassment. Luckily Malfoys do not blush.

"But what good would yelling do?" Potter sighs, sneering at me. "It wouldn't make me any less of a prisoner, most likely even more of one as you wouldn't entertain me with the occasional tantalizing game of chess," he drawls, chuckling lightly in a manner that almost makes me want to smile. Almost.

I am shocked by the reign of self-restraint Potter is showing. What he said is absolutely true, I just have a hard time believing that Potter would be able to constrict his signature Gryffindor attitude at any level.

"Why do you ask?"

An excellent question. One I will not be obliged to answer. "Just curious."

Potter snorts exasperatedly. "_Right_," he drawls. "OK then, Malfoy. Then we'll play fair; question for question."

I feel the urge to inform Potter that Malfoys do not play such silly games, but in truth I am curious what Potter wishes to know. I only answer with a remotely amused raised eyebrow, and Potter takes that as a cue to continue. "Why do you follow Voldemort?"

Damn. I hadn't expected Potter to be this forward. Though I should have, after all: he is a Gryffindor.

When I do not answer immediately, Potter sighs and gets up from his seat. He moves to the bars, wrapping his hands around the cold metal and leaning slightly forward. "Come on, Malfoy. What can it hurt at this point? Why did you choose to follow Voldemort?"

"Don't say his name!" I hiss, embarrassed of the hint of fear shining through my voice. Potter snorts but doesn't object. Instead he remains silent as I sigh, gathering my words.

"It's simple. I follow him because he serves my family's interests."

Potter grimaces viciously. "Killing Muggles is in your _interest_?"

I sigh exasperatedly, riled up by Potter's thick head. "No, you doltish twit. Is everything that black and white to you?" I sneer at the Golden Boy, who looks mildly abashed by his ignorance. He should be.

"It is in my _interest_ to live in a world where the Wizarding community isn't constantly polluted by Muggles. A world where one doesn't have to worry about the wizarding line being weakened by bad blood."

"'Bad blood'?" Potter repeats, looking no less than mortified. Suddenly I find myself watching as the Boy Hero's repressed anger surfaces, with a vengeance it seems. "If there is anyone in this world with _bad blood_, it's your lot! Torturing and killing innocent people because you think yourselves to be somehow superior to them!" Potter spits, looking much like he would jump at me and break my neck if he could get through the bars.

I sneer at him, wondering to myself why I even bothered to try to explain this to someone like Potter. As if he could ever understand. Still, can't seem to hold my words back anymore. "You think it's that simple, don't you?" I drawl, getting up from my chair and approaching the cell. "If they didn't invade and endanger our world, we would have no reason to assail theirs. While your lot is busy defending the cretins, our magical blood is flooding down the drain!" I spit the words in Potter's face, suddenly realising how close I am to the man.

Potter clenches his fists around the bars, and his flaming green eyes seem to be able to shoot me down, but he doesn't say a word. For a second I dare to think I have actually gotten through to him. A drop of perspiration gathers on Potter's brow, and his chest rises and falls violently with his agitated breath. To my horrification I realise that I have never been this tuned on.

Then Potter opens his mouth. "I despise you."

And that is the last drop. I grab a hold of the front of his shirt through the bars and tug him forward, violently pressing my mouth to his. Potter gasps in surprise as he is pulled against the bars, his open mouth giving me the perfect opportunity to suck, lick and bite at his lips. I close my eyes, leaning further, trying to get ever closer.

Potter's mouth tastes of sugar and heat. Spices. And something elusive that is entirely Harry-fucking-Potter.

He doesn't move an inch, but his breath is ragged and I can feel his chest shivering under my hand where I still hold him trapped by the cloth of his shirt. I deliver a particularly harsh bite to his lower lip and Potter whimpers, not wholly in pain. A jolt of thrill washes over me at this power I hold over him, and the realisation does nothing to reduce my arousal.

Then suddenly a loud pop is heard, and I jerk back violently from the bars. Looking to my side, I see the house-elf Tilby, holding forth a tray.

"Harry Potter's dinner, sir," she utters. I feel a faint flush creeping over my nose in spite of the fact that the elf probably didn't notice anything odd and for the record wouldn't be in the position to say anything about it.

From the corner of my eye I can see Potter still standing by the bars, and most importantly, I can still hear his ragged breathing. Ignoring him I reach for my wand and produce a trapdoor into the bars. "Slide it through there," I gesture to the elf, very careful no to look at Potter's face.

The elf obeys, bows at me, and Disapparates. I take a deep breath and make the trapdoor disappear, hurriedly turning around and stalking over to my chair.

"Malfoy, I—" Potter begins, but I cut him off.

"Shut up, Potter," I command, pronouncing his name with as large amount of venom and distaste as I can manage. I sit down and open my book, still very careful not to look over to where Potter is still standing, having not even touched the tray on the floor.

He takes an aggravated breath. "Would you just—"

"No!" I snap, losing my temper and looking up. A fatal mistake.

Potter is standing by the bars, hands still clenched around the metal. He staring at me, his emerald eyes filled with embarrassment, anger, shock, and something unnerving I can't quite put my finger on. He opens his mouth, beginning to say something, but no words come out. He looks almost remorseful.

And I loathe him. I condemn him endlessly for having the insolent audacity to show me any other feeling than hate and spite. I open my mouth to tell him off, but am forced to close it again as the words get stuck in my throat. Instead I am content with spitting demonstratively on the floor. Potter takes a quick intake of breath, and I look away.

"Eat your dinner."

**End of part III**


	4. Part IV

**Part IV**

"Checkmate."

"Bugger," Potter mutters, sighing deeply and stretching out on his bed. The muscles on his back flex beautifully, and I have to look away. "Why are we _still_ playing chess?" he asks, capturing my gaze again.

I scoff. "Because you wouldn't play mahjong."

"Hah!" Potter's laugh is a short bark that seems to bounce off the walls in the room. "The rules are impossible! How can one possibly distinguish which sodding tile is a sheung and which one is a dragon?"

"Peasant," I snort under my breath, picking up my book.

"Ponce."

"Wanker."

"Prick," Potter scoffs, unable to keep the humour out of his voice. I don't have to look at him to know that he is wearing that cheeky grin I seem to see so often these days.

It has been two weeks. Two weeks of playing chess and quarrelling in a dungeon that seems to be getting colder by the minute. Two weeks of _never_ speaking of what I prefer to call 'the incident'.

And yet, each time I think of it, I am struck by a perplexing mixture of feelings of both impossible arousal and wanting to AK myself just to stop myself from remembering.

Therefore, I make sure _not _to think about it. Ever. A mission made significantly harder by Potter's daily presence.

* * *

"Fuck, it's getting cold in here!"

I look over at Potter upon entering the dungeon in the morning. The boy has pulled his knees up to his chest and is rubbing his shoulders to create friction and warmth. I can admit to the cold, as my breath seems to create vapour in the air. And it is only October.

They seem to have given Potter a thicker quilt though. A horrendous, orange one someone must have picked out just because they knew that the colour would annoy me endlessly. A shrill colour that, wrapped around Potter's shoulders, seems to make the pigment of his eyes even more piercing.

"I applaud you for surviving in the Slytherin dungeons in the winter, it's fucking freezing in here!" Potter breathes into the palms of his hands, pulling the quilt tighter around himself.

"Relax," I snort, taking a seat in the chair as usual. "It's only this cold in the morning; it'll warm up in an hour or two."

Potter directs a death glare my way. "Easy for you to say. I couldn't sleep half the night because it was so cold that my clothes froze into place. I had to keep moving all night just to prevent it!"

I huff with mild amusement, and see a glint of satisfaction in Potter's eyes. He grins at me, and I have to fight myself as to not return the expression. Potter's smile fades, but he doesn't look away. Those green, cutting eyes seem to pierce right through me, and I can impossibly turn away. The air turns suddenly thick, loaded with electricity, and all I see are those emerald flames.

"Draco!"

My breath gets caught in my throat and I jump in my seat as Father enters the dungeon.

"Yes, Father?" I ask as calmly as I manage. Lucius looks unnervingly tense, and that in turn makes me anxious.

"The Dark Lord wants to see you," he says, gesturing towards the door. I can only nod stiffly, rising from my chair and making my way to the door, trying to ignore the goose bumps appearing all over my body. Being summoned to the Dark Lord… that can't be a good sign. But what can I have done wrong, I haven't been doing _anything_ for the past month!

My shaking legs are barely able to carry me up the stairs, and it is all I can do to try and breathe calmly as I make my way to the Great room.

"Ah, young Mr Malfoy!" the Dark Lord exclaims, as if surprised to see me. "How delightful of you to join us."

"Of course, my Lord," I state, pleased to find that my voice shows no sign of my fear. Steadily I walk forth, bowing before my master. "What can I do for you?"

The Dark Lord smiles, or at least his face twists into something resembling a smile. His long white fingers are caressing the back of his great snake, draped over the back of his armchair. "I was only wondering how our guest is doing," the snakelike man replies lightly, drawing amused chuckles from the other Death Eaters due to the mentioning of the famous hostage.

I force a malicious grin onto my face. "He is fairing as adequately as can be expected, though I imagine my company doesn't please him much," I drawl, gaining an amused leer from the Dark Lord.

He nods approvingly. "Good. I am pleased to hear that you are managing your task so well, young Draco," the Dark Lord states, eying me intently. "That is more than what I can say of your father."

The Dark Lord doesn't elaborate, and I am uncertain if I want him to. The words he has spoken are enough to bring shivers down my back. I hear someone draw on a quick breath behind my back, and turn around to regard my mother's shaken features.

The Dark Lord chuckles, getting up from his seat and pacing back and forth before me. "You see, Draco, your father has been something of a disappointment lately. Of course, if you manage to keep up your good work, you won't have to worry about Lucius' failures being taken out on you and your beloved mother."

"Thank you, my Lord," is all I can say, bowing as I cast as sideward glance at my agitated mother. I can only imagine what Father has done to enrage the Dark Lord, explanations will most likely be scarce.

"Go now, young Mr Malfoy. I have other matters to take care of," the Dark Lord mutters, gesturing offhandedly for me to take my leave.

"As you wish, my Lord," I respond, desperate to keep my voice steady. Bowing deeply again, I back away towards the door.

Only as the door closes behind me that the overwhelming terror, wrath, and desperation washes over me. I hurry down the stairs to the dungeons, trying for my life to stop myself from crying, screaming or swearing out loud.

"Oh good, you're back," Father states as I stumble into the dungeon. I try to analyse his features, but he shows no sign of the fear I would expect. I despise him endlessly for keeping this matter from me.

Father casts a last spiteful look at Potter, who responds with a vicious sneer, before pushing past me to the door. "I cannot comprehend how you remain sane in the constant company of that brat," Lucius leers, closing the door behind him without waiting for a response.

"Your father sure is a pleasant lad," Potter mutters cynically, staring at the closed myrtle door, fists clenched around the cell bars.

"Shut up, Potter!" I spit out, dreadfully embarrassed over how broken my voice sounds. It's all I can do to keep myself together right now, and Potter's snide comments about my father do not help.

Potter raises a slightly astonished eyebrow at me "Well, you sure are in a lovely mood. Was the meeting with Voldemort that enjoyable?"

And I snap.

"Shut the fuck up!" I roar, taking two quick strides over to the cell and delivering a punch directly between Potter's eyes.

Potter flies backwards, landing on his back on the grimy floor with a loud groan. "What the _fuck_, Malfoy…?" he moans, gripping his head with his hand.

I have somehow already made my way into the cell and find myself aiming a kick straight at Potter's ribcage. He yells, hastily getting up from the floor. I try to hit him again, but he dodges, instead coming around from the side and gripping my hands tightly.

"What the hell are you doing?" he asks, staring at me with wide eyes.

"I— I…" I stutter, uncertain of what to say, what to do. I try to shake my hands, break free from Potter's grip, hit him, kick him, do something to rid myself from the panic I feel. But his hands are tightly wrapped around my wrists, and all I seem to be able to do is hyperventilate.

"I fucking hate you!" I spit at him, despising myself for my unsteady voice.

For some incomprehensible reason, Potter smiles. "I hate you too, Malfoy."

And he leans in to kiss me. A soft, gentle, tentative kiss, nothing like the one we shared before. I try to break free, feeling my powers drain out of me, but Potter holds on to me in an iron grip.

Suddenly I find myself pushed up against the wall. I gasp as the cold stones touch my back, and Potter takes the opportunity to slide his tongue into my mouth. I moan at the wonderful sensation, completely forgetting that I should not be kissing Potter and _absolutely_ not enjoying it.

Encouraged by my moan, Potter lets go of my other hand to be able to slide his arm around my back. Suddenly my hyperventilation is back, and I realise that I am getting a panic attack, trapped in the closed space between Potter and the wall. I push him away, and he breaks the kiss reluctantly.

My plan was to push Potter away and get out of here as fast as I can. But now he stands before me, breathing heavily and looking so forlorn, so dejected, so excruciatingly beautiful that I can only think of one thing to do.

"No one pushes a Malfoy against the wall," I hiss, grabbing Potter by his upper arms and reversing our positions so that he now is the one with his back to the cold stones. To my surprise, Potter only chuckles. I grab him by the hair at the back of his head and pull his face to mine. Just to get rid of his smirk.

Starting slow, the kissing soon gets frenzied, and before I know it my hands are slithering under Potter's sweater. He shudders as the chilly air comes in contact with his warm skin. I slide my nails up and down his bare back none too gently, thriving in the gasps and moans that escape Potter.

I can't help the shiver that runs through me as Potter pushes his hands under my shirt. Before long he is unbuttoning it, and somehow my breath gets caught in my throat at the knowledge. To catch up with him I grab hold of the hem of his shirt and drag it violently over his head. Potter's gasp echoes mine as the kiss is temporarily broken, and he hurries to reconnect our mouths, pushing my shirt down over my shoulders.

Wrapping my arms tightly around his chest, I pull Potter as close to me as humanly possible. I shudder as my bare skin meets his, our hips pressed closely together as I push him against the wall. Potter alters the position of his hips slightly, and I cannot help the gasp that escapes me as his erection is pressed against mine.

"Merlin!" he breathes against my mouth as my hand comes down to undo the buttons on his jeans, sliding inside to grab hold of his cock. With fumbling hands he reciprocates, and my breath convulses violently at the contact. The room soon fills with our laboured breaths echoing in the small space.

Potter's breathy pants accelerate dramatically in my ear, and the sound increases my arousal more than I ever thought to be possible. It is no wonder neither of us last long. Potter comes first, spasming in my hand and shuddering against me, a guttural groan escaping him. I can't control myself any longer and I, too, come, jerking violently, my heart fluttering irregularly as I bite down on Potter's shoulder to keep from shouting out. Potter's legs seem to give in, and he slides down onto the floor, pulling me with him. We remain there, me straddled over him as he leans back against the wall. He throws his head back and stares at the ceiling as he lets his breathing even out.

"Wow," he breathes out.

"Yeah—" I begin, just as breathless, when I look into Potter's emerald eyes and it suddenly dawns on me what I have done. Where I have done it. And most importantly, whom I have done it with.

Bugger.

Within the time span of five seconds I have pulled on my shirt, grabbed my wand, jumped off of Potter and stumbled out through the cell door, and slammed it shut behind me. The only objection Potter has time for is a vague "Wha—?".

Safe and clear outside the cell I lean back and slide down against the wall. I draw my knees to my chest and lean my forehead down against them. "_Fuuuuuuck!_"

I sit like that for I don't know how long. For once, Potter says nothing. I hear him moving around for a while, but he soon quiets down altogether. When the silence grows too disconcerting, I look up to find him sitting knees crossed directly behind the bars, looking straight at me. I am pleased to find he has put his sweater back on. It takes great courage from me to be able to look Potter in the eye.

Potter takes a deep breath. "Are we going to talk about this?"

"No," I blurt out, already regretting it when I realise it actually _is_ the right answer.

"Don't be an idiot, Malfoy," Potter spits, his anguish prominent behind his relatively collected words. "We have to—"

"No, no, _no!_" I feel myself starting to hyperventilate again. "There is _nothing_ to talk about," I try to sound convincing as I crawl up from the floor and begin to button my shirt with unsteady fingers. "I was angry, and in the need for… _something_, and you were _there_. That's _it! _That's all there is to it."

I barely manage to look at Potter, and when I do I immediately regret it. He is looking up at me, hurt and distressed and knowing, _knowing _that I am lying. And the worst part is that I myself know it better than anyone.

All the more reason to make this perfectly clear to Potter. And to remind myself.

I take a deep breath. "Potter, you're a _prisoner_. I am your _guard_. Don't you forget that."

I have already turned away when I hear his broken voice:

"Do you actually think I could?"

**End of part IV**


	5. Part V

**Part V**

Potter doesn't talk to me. That's definitely a first.

I should be glad. Relieved that I don't need to talk about what happened. Relieved that no questions are being asked.

But frankly, I don't know what to do with myself. These dungeons seem never before to have been this quiet. The chessboard stands immobile on its table, leftover pieces from the last game still scattered over the wood, as if time is standing still since last night.

It makes me feel slightly claustrophobic.

I catch Potter looking at me as I stare at the chessboard. He looks away immediately, his eyes big pools of such animosity, such loathing that I feel sick. And I hate him all the more because of it. What right does he have to make me feel like this? What right does that ignorant prick have to cause me to feel this kind of pity, this kind of heartwrenching _regret?_

Malfoys aren't supposed to feel regret. Yet, I do. I regret that our world isn't different, that _we _aren't different. If it was, if we were, maybe there would be some way that I could do something besides tell him 'no'.

Most of all, I regret being here and having to crush my own stupid fantasies each day.

I watch him turn his back on me and lying down on the bed, closing his eyes. And I keep watching him until his breathing slows down and evens out as he falls asleep. Because that's what I do. That's what I'm here for. To watch Harry Potter.

* * *

"Draco. Would you be so kind as to serve your fiancée some more wine?"

Mother looks at me pointedly, raising her own glass in demonstration. I nod at her quickly. "Certainly, Mother."

I turn to Astoria, who quite frankly looks like she has had enough to drink already. "Would you care for some more wine, Astoria?" I ask, plastering what I know to be a very genuine-looking smile on my face.

The girl beside me smiles widely, nodding eagerly while she covers her mouth with her pale hand in a feeble attempt to hide her hiccups. I lift the carafe and pour the red liquid into both of our glasses. I will definitely need another drink to get through this evening.

Mother and Mrs Greengrass smile at the both of us happily, turning back to their interrupted conversation about the new chandeliers in the second story drawing room. I am forced to turn back to Astoria, trying to find something even remotely interesting to talk with her about.

Unfortunately my lack of interest in Astoria and the girl's simple character brings me to something less than imaginative. "I do hope that you are enjoying your dinner?" I ask her, gesturing towards her almost empty plate as if the answer wasn't obvious.

Astoria grins widely, showing off her perfect white teeth. "Yes, it was wonderful!" She claps her hands together enthusiastically. "If I were so lucky as to eat like this every day!" she exclaims, before realisation lights up her face and she laughs loudly. "Oh, I forgot; I _will_ be so lucky!"

The girl touches my arm gently while reaching for her glass with her other hand, and I do my best not to shudder.

_No self-control and can't hold her liquor. This bodes well for the future.  
_Later my wife-to-be has become so intoxicated that she is just about falling off her chair. Trying to salvage some dignity for both her and myself, I am forced to excuse us and take her outside for some fresh air.

* * *

"Oh, what a beauuuutiful night!" she proclaims as we enter the veranda, just about falling over her own feet.

"Indeed it is," I mutter, having long since lost any interest that I might have previously had to be polite to the girl. She stares into the garden for a long time, her eyes slowly starting to look somewhat clearer. I sigh, uncertain if a sober Astoria Greengrass is much better company than a drunken one.

"_You_ are beautiful!" the girl suddenly declares, smiling at me widely and certainly not soberly. I am too stunned by the impropriety of her stupidity to answer immediately. And before I have the time, I suddenly find myself with an armful of Astoria. She kisses me furiously, reeking of wine, her arms wrapped around my neck. I do as I am expected and reciprocate, though I am momentarily stunned that timid little Astoria Greengrass managed to make such a bold move. It would have never happened without the alcohol.

Surprisingly enough, it's not a bad kiss. Astoria is a fairly attractive girl, with a clear hue and bright brown eyes. I force myself to relax into the situation, wrapping my arms around the girl's waist. She leans into me, sighing contently and weaving her fingers into my hair.

She is soft and small, smelling of pomegranates and wine, her long hair tickling my nose.

And she is all wrong.

I suddenly find that I am short of breath and am forced to push her away, not all that gently. Astoria gasps as I pull away unexpectedly, fighting to keep her balance. I run a hand through my hair and straighten out my shirt. "We should go back inside," I murmur, trying to hide my self-consciousness behind a serious expression.

Astoria frowns disappointedly, looking like she is about to say something. Luckily she seems to change her mind at the last minute. "Sure."

It is late in the night when the Greengrass party finally leaves and I am allowed to hide away in the safety of my room. I cannot be around Mother and Father, I feel as if they easily could see through my exterior into my shame and disgrace. I feel as if everyone who looks at me can see that I just turned down a pretty girl, my fiancée, because I kept thinking of a _guy _when she kissed me.

Because I kept thinking of Harry fucking Potter.

I hate him. I hate him _so_ much.

I hate myself. I hate me for being unable to stay away. For being so weak, so feeble that I couldn't stop Potter from carving his way into my heart.

* * *

As morning dawns I haven't been able to sleep at all, and I am becoming more or less hysterical. I don't want to go back to the dungeons. I don't want to see Potter.

I need to see Potter.

_I can't stay away anymore._

And so, when the first rays of the morning sun rise above the horizon, I get dressed and make my way to the dungeons. Just as I have done for the last month.

He is still asleep when I enter the room.

Potter moves around a lot in his sleep. Rolling, thrashing so wildly that he has kicked his quilt down into a heap on the floor. I've never seen him sleep before, and something about seeing him like this, without any kind of wall around him, without any kind of barrier, feels so intimate that it makes my guts turn.

I had no idea what obsession was. Until I saw Potter through these bars.

Without thinking any further I unlock the cell and walk through the door, slumping down on my knees before the bed. Looking down at Potter's features, I notice how pale and luminous his skin has become during this month without sunlight.

Why does he have to be so fucking beautiful?

A deep, shaky sigh escapes me, and Potter stirs in his sleep. He opens one eye, then both, looking at me in confusion. One hand comes up to hastily brush away the remains of sleep from his eyes.

I sigh deeply, still uncertain if what I'm about to do is in any sense wise. I know that it absolutely is not. In spite of that, my brain keeps screaming for me to jump.

Tired of resisting, I step over the edge.

"How come every time I think I have the upper hand, you come and turn my life upside down?" I ask him, my voice raw and shaky.

And before he has time to answer, I wrap my hands around his neck and kiss him. Regrets be damned.

Potter shudders, from the cold or from my touch I do not know. But he kisses me back eagerly, gasping lightly as I move a hand beneath his shirt and run it over his stomach. He hurries to move, grabbing my robes and pulling them off me in a haste. I shiver as my bare arms come in contact with the freezing air, but I continue and pull off my undershirt as well.

Potter's eyes wander my chest hungrily, and I feel my arousal building by the second. I lean forward and trap Potter's mouth beneath my mouth anew, my hand seeking its way down and cupping his erection through his jeans. Potter gasps, pulling away and staring me straight in the eyes.

"I want you," he says breathlessly, and for a moment I am certain I misheard him.

Then he swiftly pulls off his own shirt and grabs my hand, insistently pulling me forward as he lies down on the poor excuse for a bed. I lie down on top of him, and he begins kissing my neck ferociously.

"Potter, I—" I begin to protest, suddenly very nervous.

"Please," he breathes in an almost breathless tone into my ear, sending shivers down my spine. "If I die tomorrow, I want to do this today."

Something about Potter making this his death wish goes straight to my cock, and I cannot help the low gasp that escapes me. I look down at Potter, who is staring at me expectantly, and it occurs to me that I have never wanted anything more than what Potter is asking for.

I take a deep breath before clamping my mouth down on Potter's, my hands travelling swiftly down to unbutton his jeans as I move my hips against his. He moans and tries to move against me, but my weight on top of him makes it difficult. Having managed to unbutton his jeans, I deliver a sharp bite at his lower lip and pull away to pull the jeans down his legs. Potter gasps breathlessly as his erection springs free, and it crosses my mind that I have never seen anything more beautiful than him lying here, stretched out naked before me.

I quickly toss his trousers aside and move to undress my own. When I manage to untangle myself from them I look down to see Potter staring at me greedily, his mouth twisted in a husky grin. My breath accelerates at the sight of him.

I lean down over him, kissing him sloppily. "Turn around," I whisper between our mouths.

Potter seems startled for a second, but when he grins lecherously and spins around to lie on his stomach, an overwhelming feeling of power washes over me. It brings me enormous joy to have Potter spread before me, obeying my commands.

Breathing huskily into his ear, I let my hands flow over his muscular back, my nails drawing pink lines into his skin. Potter shudders and whimpers, grinding himself into the mattress and letting a breathy 'oh, god!' escape his lips. I grin into the back of his neck, letting my teeth graze the sensitive skin there.

My hands wander down to his arse, to the smooth skin that I take my time exploring as I nudge my knee between his thighs to spread them apart. By now Potter has begun rutting into the mattress quite fiercely, and I realise I will have to hurry or neither of us is going to last. I reach down to the floor and search through the pockets of my robes for my wand.

I point the wand at my neglected prick and mutter a lubrication charm. "Ready?" I ask Potter, a little more affectionately than I had intended.

"Oh God, yes!" he pants, glancing at me over his shoulder. I see no doubt in those green eyes, and the trust he lays on me warms me with a disturbing fuzzy feeling in my stomach. I hurry to look away.

Guiding myself, I push inside him as slowly as I can manage. More for my own sake than Potter's, as I am not sure that I will be able to last. Potter pants and moans, his words incoherent indicators of both pain and pleasure. For me, the tight heat and pleasure is almost too much. When I am fully sheathed, I pause for a few seconds to let both me and Potter catch our breaths.

I am completely unprepared and can only gasp at the unexpected sensation as Potter suddenly wriggles beneath me. "Would you please-…just… _move!_" he breathes.

I obey, pulling out almost completely and thrusting back, hard. Potter cries out beneath me, his hands pulling at the mattress beneath him and his neck flushed pink with exertion. I pull out again, changing my angle slightly as I push back in, and this time Potter almost jumps off the bed.

"Oh _fuck!_" he exclaims, breathing heavily. "Do that again!"

I soon accomplish on setting a slow rhythm, hitting his prostate with every stroke. My knees dig painfully into the bed, but my brain fails to care. Potter gives up trying to move much in favour of repeating incoherent phrases.

Somehow the burning, wonderful pleasure melts together with the annihilation of my life into a tantalizing world of heat, pale skin and spices. Who knew that the complete destruction of one's principles and values could be this wonderful.

The feelings have been building up too long and we are too impatient for it to last very long. I listen to Potter repeating 'god, fuck, oh yes!' over and over again, but then he lets out a long moan.

"_Draco!_"

And just like that, I am pushed over the edge. I groan loudly, gritting my teeth together violently as I empty myself into him, thrusting in a couple more times, riding off my pleasure. That seems to set it for Potter, and he comes too, gasping loudly and bucking under me. When he stops moving I pull out from him, slumping down beside him and forcing him to make room for me in the tiny bed. He turns on his side, and we lie like that, looking at each other while our pulses try to return to normal.

Soon we realise how cold the room is compared to our overheated bodies, and Potter leans down to pick up the quilt from the floor. I move to get up, but Potter prevents me by wrapping a tired arm around my chest.

"No," he says simply, pulling me towards him and dragging the quilt over our cooling bodies. I open my mouth to object, but Potter's arms around me seem to erase all coherent thoughts.

I realise that I have just made myself worthy approximately one hundred _Crucios_. And for the first time in my life, I simply cannot bother to care.

**End of part V**


	6. Part VI

**Part VI**

"What do we do now?" Potter asks, looking longingly at the open cell door. For a second I tense up, thinking he will make a run for it. It takes a minute for me to calm down and realise that though Potter might be irrational, he is not a complete idiot. He knows he wouldn't make it far.

I get up from the uncomfortable bed, dressing quickly and making a small effort to straighten out my messy hair. "There is nothing we can do, Potter," I state truthfully.

"You do know I can't let you out, right?" I look over my shoulder at him as I brush off the dust from my clothes.

"I know," he says, fighting to make his voice sound light and positive. But I can see through it, see how a shudder goes through his body and he pulls the quilt closer around himself.

"I just—," I begin, in desperate need to justify myself even though Potter didn't ask for it. "The Dark Lord would know it was me. He would kill me. He would kill my _mother_."

Potter nods quietly, offering me a small smile. I can't help the deep sigh that escapes me as I wonder how the hell I got here. Never before have I had any qualms about what is right or wrong, about the morality of my decisions.

Well, that is not exactly true. Once before have I had to choose.

"_Draco, please let me help you!"_

"_I don't need your help! I have to do this! I have to kill you... or he's gonna kill me!"_

I'm still not sure what I should have done.

* * *

I still try to pull myself away. I try to distance myself, convince myself that it's wrong, it's despicable, it will get me killed in a most gruesome way.

I know all that. I know that I am gambling with my own life, for Potter, nonetheless. But none of what I try to tell myself changes the fact that when I walk into that room, Potter is there, and he takes my breath away. Like the morning chill he sneaks under my clothes and crawls his way under my skin, leaving my voice of reason stupefied to silence. His clear voice clings in my ears in way that seems to melt away every brick of the wall I have fought so hard to build around myself, and his touch is like a hot flame in the cold, damp dungeon. And at night, when I leave, the ghost of his breath on my skin seems to follow me throughout the hours I am away from him. He is the sun I never thought I needed.

Somehow he manages to make me forget about the possibility of getting caught, and all the horrors that would follow. When I try to remind myself and him about it, he only sniggers, grabbing me by my robes and pulling me close.

"Touch me," he whispers, his husky voice sending shivers down my spine.

And I always obey.

* * *

"Do you recon things could have been different?" Potter asks, his breath ghosting tentatively over my naked chest. "If we had— If this had happened before the war?"

"Don't kid yourself, Potter," I state coldly, refusing to be sucked into his desperate illusions, his visions too remote to be mentioned. "Nothing would have happened then, we would sooner have killed each other. Nothing should have happened now, either."

Potter wraps his arms tighter around me, as if keeping me closer physically will prevent me from pushing him away in my mind. "Hypothetically. You don't think it would have made a difference?"

"No," I state truthfully. I was never one able to sugar-coat the truth. "You would still have gone off to be the Boy Hero like Dumbledore wanted you to, and I would still have stayed and fought for the Dark Lord."

Potter tenses in my arms, though he tries to act natural. He hates me for mentioning his mentor, and despises me even more for bringing forth the issue that always has and always will separate us. Though he asks the questions, he does not want the answers.

I pull him closer, and he compels himself to relax. I despise him for trying to search for some pointless meaningfulness in our situation. He will only be sorely disappointed.

How finding some purpose in this mess would help him in any way is beyond me.

A purpose won't save his life.

* * *

I try to remain on the right side of the bars as much as possible. Reading, writing, doing anything inconspicuous. Just in case. A task significantly compromised by Potter, constantly making lewd comments and giving me inviting glances. It seems that he finds playing chess even more tedious than before now that he can think of something better to do with his time. And I find it hard to deny a dying man's wish.

"I could save you, you know," Potter interrupts our game one day.

I huff at him in ridicule. "Potter, I don't think you are in a position to save anyone."

He frowns. "I mean, if you let me go. The Order can protect you and your mother."

He has no idea how deep his words cut me. I know that he fully believes what he says to be true. And perhaps he is right in the sense that he could provide Mother and me with a sanctuary within the Order. And seeing his desperation so clearly, seeing how he reposes his trust, his last hope in me, I can't but feel guilty. Because I have no intention of helping him.

"No, Potter," I state, wanting to conclude this subject as fast as possible. "The Order can't protect us." To my dismay my voice sounds desperate and hopeless. In any case, it is the truth. Even if the Order tried to help my mother and me, no one disappoints the Dark Lord and gets away with it.

"Of course they can!" Potter exclaims, and I'm certain he doesn't even realise how naïve he sounds.

I sigh, beginning to loose my temper. "Potter, understand this. I do not _wish_ to be protected by your cohorts. My mother even less, I imagine." My words are harsh, but I know what must be said so that the meaning will get through to Potter. I take a deep breath and force myself to look into Potter's vivid green eyes. "I am not going to repent, or whatever it is that you seem to believe. I have no intention to switch sides. I may not always agree with our Lord's actions, but I do believe in our cause."

Potter stares at me, his nostrils flaring as he tries to keep himself from screaming at me. Keeping my steady gaze locked with his, I hurry to conclude my statement.

"I am sorry, Potter. But I cannot let you go. You should have known that by now."

I almost believe I have side-stepped the minefield when Potter's voice cuts through the air.

"You're sorry?" he spits, sneering at me in a very unpleasant manner. "You make no effort to prevent me from getting killed, and then you say you're _sorry_? What the fuck, Malfoy?" Potter exclaims, his hands wrapping around the metal bars, knuckles whitening in suppressed rage.

In spite of fighting to stay calm, I feel my insides beginning to boil. "What did you expect, Potter? That fucking you would make me fall in love with you and that I would risk everything I have built up to save you?" I leer at him, pronouncing the words with as much venom as I can possibly conjure. Potter is looking very pale and his jaw shakes slightly, his expression betraying the fact that I have just hit the nail's head. I feel a strange mixture of triumph and guilt at the fact. I know I have already said to much, but something in this surge of power spurs me on.

"I'm right, aren't I?" I ask, sneering at the boy in front of me cruelly. "You thought I'd sacrifice everything, my position, my beliefs, my family, my entire _life _for you." I watch the mockery in my words twist the knife in Potter's chest, and it pains me almost as much as him. Still, I can't seem to prevent myself from delivering the final blow.

"You thought I could actually love you."

Potter stares at me, despise, rage and the ugly face of betrayal written in his expression. He doesn't say a word, but gets quietly up from the floor and lies down on the bed, his back turned towards me.

I want to feel regret, I want to be sorry for what I said, for some reason I even want to apologize, but I can't. I can't be someone I am not. And the person I am, Draco Malfoy, enjoys watching Potter break before my eyes.

"You said you wanted to save me," I snort, glaring daggers at Potter's back and hating him for refusing to look at me when I'm tormenting him.

"You're a fool, Potter. How can you save others when you can't even save yourself?"

* * *

Later in the night, I can't sleep. I want to tell myself that I don't regret it, that I don't constantly wish that I could take it back. I hate Potter more than ever for making me feel guilty when I have only spoken the truth. I tell myself that I did him a favour by not trying to keep him in the dark, in the constant denial that he seems to prefer.

Who am I kidding? If anyone is in denial, it's me. I thought I could work trough this mess, both have my cake and eat it too, and come out on top, unscarred. But things have never been that simple with Potter. Somehow he always manages to drive me into a corner, even if he's the one who's undermined.

I sigh deeply and pull my own hair as I lie in my bed, fighting to catch some sleep. It's completely useless. Potter has ruined even that for me.

Suddenly I hear a loud series of knocks on my door, and panic surges immediately through my veins.

"Draco? Draco!" Mother's voice is heard through the door, her voice betraying that she is not far from crying. I hurry to wrap a morning robe over my pyjamas and run over to the door.

I snatch the door open and am met by Mother's very pale features. "Hurry!" she exclaims in a dry voice, before I have the time to utter a single word. "The Dark Lord wishes to see you."

I nod swiftly and hurry past her down the stairs, hearing her rush after me. I feel a lump gather in my throat. _This cannot be good_. Why would he summon me at three in the morning? A horrible thought surges through me.

They can't _know_, can they?

What if Potter got vengeful and told Nott about all that has happened? Shit. I'm dead meat.

"What does it concern?" I quietly ask Mother when I am finally able to swallow my fear enough to speak.

"It's about Lucius," Mother sniffles, her voice very raspy.

I feel a stone fall from my chest at the same time as a new kind of dread washes over me. So it is not Potter. But if Father has done something unforgivable, what will happen to us?

"Very good, Narcissa," the Dark Lord exclaims as we enter the room, and I force my legs to stop shaking as I bow before my master.

"You wished to see me, my Lord," I state, trying to ignore the fact that it doesn't help my confidence to be standing here in my pyjamas, feeling more like a child than ever.

"Indeed I did," the Dark Lord replies, a slight sneer playing on his thin lips. He leans back in his armchair and looks over at the large windows, creating a theatrical pause before he continues.

"You know, Draco, that your father has been something of a disappointment to me lately," he states, his cold, read eyes shifting back to me.

I fight to look calm and composed as I answer. "Yes, my lord. I have hoped that my efforts have made up for some of that." I fight to amend whatever errors my father now has made.

The Dark Lord looks at me silently for a moment, before an amused grin appears on his face. "That is very thoughtful of you, Draco. I am proud to find that you hold such a strong respect for the aspect of family."

Another theatrical silence follows as the Dark Lord pretends to observe the pattern of the tapestry. I hold my breath.

"Unfortunately, I have to tell you, Draco, that your father is no longer with us. He got very unlucky in a resent raid." The Dark Lord observes me very intently, watching my reaction as he utters every word carefully. Some of the other Death Eaters, standing by the walls around me, snigger quietly.

Initially, I am shocked. Not wholly surprised, but shocked. Then the fury sets in, because I know that the Dark Lord is lying. My father was not killed in a raid. If the Lord didn't do it himself, someone else in this room did. I feel the anger boil within me, but a fear for myself and Mother soon sets in and overpowers it. I fight to breathe normally, determined not to show the Dark Lord any of my emotions. A hard task, especially as I can hear Mother's quiet sobbing by the back wall.

"I am sorry to hear that," I state coolly, my eyes focusing steadily on the Dark Lord's. He seems impressed by my composed posture. Something resembling a smile appears on his face.

"I am very proud of you, Draco," he says, and I feel some relief surge over me. "After some initial… _failures_, you have risen to the occasion and become a great asset to me."

"Thank you, my Lord," I breathe out, nodding curtly at my master.

He looks very pleased. "Therefore, I would like to appoint you your father's position in my inner circle."

I hear a series of gasps escape the other Death Eaters, their surprised reaction echoing my own. Of course, it is a great honour. A honour I had not expected to receive for many years. A way to truly make a difference, to save Mother from suffering from Father's mistakes.

And I won't have to watch Potter anymore.

The thought is not nearly as happy as I had wished. But in the end, it makes no difference. One does not decline when the Dark Lord offers something.

"It would be an honour, my Lord," I state, bowing deeply before the Dark Lord who looks very pleased with himself. "You will not regret this."

"I hope so," he answers, nodding at me one last time before dismissing me with a offhanded gesture.

I back away to the door slowly. In the hallway I am attacked by Mother, who throws herself around my neck and sobs onto my shoulder, her tears wetting my robe. I am pretty certain this is the first time she has hugged me since I started school at 11 years old. And I have definitely never seen her break down and cry before. Patting Mother awkwardly on the back, I try to offer her some comfort. After all, she has lost her husband. And I have lost my father. I wonder why that doesn't provoke the same feeling in me.

When Mother finally lets go of me, I look her in the eyes. "We will be alright," I declare, and her face lights up slightly. She looks at me with such unreserved adoration and trust that it makes me even more determined to follow through with my promise.

Walking back to my room, I make that same promise to myself. I will make sure we are alright. I'll make sure that Mother won't have to hide her face in shame around here anymore. I'll make her proud of me. And I will never give her a reason to cry again.

Someone should benefit from my promotion.

I have just been appointed one of the highest posts in the Dark Lord's circle. Yet somehow I can't seem to feel as happy as I should. This is something I have been waiting and wishing for my entire life. And not that I have it, I can't seem to enjoy the glory. Because of one small reason.

Potter.

My new position withdraws my duty to be Potter's guard. I won't be able to see him anymore. Not alone at least. And something in acknowledging that seems to carve a hole into my chest.

Fuck him. Fuck him for taking away the one thing I could be proud over in my entire life.

Fuck him for making me miss him.

**End of part VI **


	7. Part VII

**Part VII**

A week passes by. An excruciatingly slow week. A pathetic week of wishing myself back to that cold, damp dungeon. Wishing myself back to Potter.

I keep myself busy. An easy task while trying to gain the Dark Lord's favour. But in the silent hours of the night, when I climb into bed exhausted, I can't keep him out. Potter invades my thoughts like a plague, crawling under my skin and wrapping coldly around my intestines until I find it hard to breathe.

I keep trying to tell myself that I don't want to go back. I try to tell myself that I don't regret the decision I've made. That it wasn't even my decision to make. That I had no choice.

But it all come back to the fact that if I didn't, why do I feel so fucking guilty?

I doubt that Potter is worse off now than when I was his guard. But it bothers me to be away from him. To not be able to see him. To think of someone else, down there right now in the dungeon, _our_ dungeon, with him.

I am a Malfoy. We do not like to share things. And loathe that I am to admit it, I do not like to share Potter.

But of course, I am not. Sharing him. He was never mine.

Heroes are no one's private property.

* * *

Another sleepless night. I light the fire in the drawing room, sitting down in an armchair, desperately trying to think of anything besides Potter.

Naturally, I fail miserably.

The thing is, it is this particular moment that is the worst. It never lets up. I feel this sick, this disgusted every fucking minute of every fucking day.

Still, I know that I can endure. This is not the first time I have felt guilt or regret or longing. This is nothing new for me. And in my most ignorant moments I think that it cannot get any worse.

Until I remember why Potter is here. As a prisoner.

He will die. One day he will be killed, one way or another. Why the Dark Lord has kept him alive for this long is a mystery to me, but I am not ignorant enough to believe it will last forever.

Harry Potter will die. And I will be here to watch him draw his last breath, to hear his last screams. Knowing that I could have saved him.

In the end, the decision is made easily. Without much thought I grab one of the black wrought iron forks from beside the fire place and make my way towards the dungeon, my wand in my other hand. Casting a Disillusionment Charm, I creep as silently as possible down the stairs, making my way through the complicated network of chambers and dark tunnels. Approaching the familiar green door, I slowly open it and see Theodore Nott standing with his back towards me. He doesn't notice the door opening, he is busy saying something to Potter who looks thoroughly pissed.

Looking away from Potter, Nott yawns and stretches his arms towards the roof. I take the opportunity to open the door enough for me to slip through it. Potter's eyes shift to the door, a suspicious furrow immediately forming between his eyebrows. I can only pray that his expression doesn't alert Nott to the fact that the door just swung open for no apparent reason.

Luckily Potter is smart enough to realise that anyone sneaking invisibly into the dungeon must be his ally and not Nott's, and he quickly turns his head back towards his guard, his eyes still flickering towards the door.

In the end, it is all much easier than I could have imagined.

I sneak up behind Nott, making sure not to make a sound, to not even breathe too loudly. Lifting the iron fork I hold my breath and hope to Merlin that I'm making the right choice.

I swing the weapon, the heavy wrought iron feeling surprisingly light and airy in my hands. The fork hits Nott hard at the back of his head, and he is out like a candle. Without uttering a sound he falls to the floor before me, and in spite of my heart pumping with fear, the entire scenario seems to fill me up from within with an intoxicating feeling of power. I stifle the urge to let out a huff at the pathetic lump before me. Nott was never worthy of being in Slytherin. A true Slytherin would have never turned his back on that door and found himself being hit down by a simple fireplace utensil.

Letting the fork fall to the floor, appearing into sight as it leaves my grip, I crouch down and check Nott's pulse. When I have confirmed that he is alive, I grab his wand and perform a silent binding and gagging spell on him. My own wand would be too easy to trace.

"Who are you?"

I had almost forgotten Potter. He is standing just behind the bars, looking directly at where he thinks I am. I take a deep breath and remove the Disillusionment Charm.

Potter's jaw falls as he lays eyes upon me. "Malfoy—" he states, staring at me with his green eyes wide in surprise and shock. I guess I was the last person he expected to save him after all that has happened.

The thrill of seeing him again sends a shiver through my body, and I open my mouth to tell him… something. Luckily I immediately realise that our time is scarce and most importantly; getting sentimental with Potter would ruin my plan entirely.

Again, I raise Nott's wand and point it at the cell. It takes more power and concentration than it would with my own, but I manage to open the door. "Get out," I tell Potter, who stares at me silently for a second before hurrying to obey.

I crouch down again and pull Nott's shoes violently off his feet, tossing them at Potter. "Put these on," I order, moving over to the chair where Nott's winter cloak lays scattered. To my satisfaction Potter is done putting on the shoes on his bare feet, and I hand him the cloak, careful not to touch him or to look him in the eyes for too long.

"Good, let's go," I mutter when Potter has fastened the cloak. I let Nott's wand fall to the floor beside the immobile man, and step directly over the body and towards the door. I am just about to reach for the handle when Potter tugs at my sleeve, forcing me to stop.

"Why are you doing this?" he whispers behind me, his voice low and reserved. I fight to collect my thoughts before I am able to turn around and face him.

"I don't know," I respond. And I honestly don't. The reasons go so far beyond quilt, regret, and affection for Potter that I am at loss for words. I move to turn again and continue through the door, when Potter grabs me violently and swings his arms around my neck, forcefully pressing his lips to mine. I don't know if the kiss is caused by relief or plain gratitude, but in the moment I fail to care. The kiss is breathy, desperate, and sloppy, and I find it to be over much too soon. I pull away breathlessly, remaining standing where I am and looking into Potter's eyes.

For once he doesn't move an inch, and I myself feel as if I am rooted to the floor. For a moment I let myself be sucked into those green pools, feeling as if the entire universe is standing still around us. When I finally manage to rip myself out of the trance, I turn away rapidly to hide the flush on my face.

"Come on," I mutter, opening the door hurriedly. Potter obeys, but he grabs my hand insistently as we ascend the stairs. The entire situation feels ridiculously surreal and excruciatingly intimate at the same time.

The house is dark and completely silent. I perform a quick Disillusionment Charm on Potter, just in case, as we sneak through the hall, shadows mixed with the blue moonlight falling on us through the windows. I lead Potter to the backdoor, opening the door as silently as I manage and hurrying out into the garden.

The air is cold and dry, and I shiver in my thin pyjamas and morning robe, wishing I'd planned this far enough to wear a cloak.

Potter stills for a moment outside the door, staring dreamily out into the garden where a thin layer of snow has covered the ground and leafless trees.

"It's beautiful," he says, drawing in a deep breath of cold air. I feel as if I'm watching him regain all his strength right before my eyes, and suddenly he is no longer the scrawny boy I have grown to know during these past months. Something tightens painfully in my chest at the knowledge.

"Come on!" I order irritably, grabbing Potter's sleeve and dragging him forward into the grove of oaks. With every couple of yards I swing my wand behind us to erase the traces of our feet left in the snow. Potter struggles to keep up with me, but I only slow down slightly when the shadows have swallowed us completely and no light from the house can reach us.

I walk with him for a long way, far further than I would need to. The reason is not only that I cannot seem to be able to let go of his hand, but also that I do not want to turn around and see his face.

Because when I do, I will have to say goodbye.

Finally, I realise I have to get back. I take in a deep breath, licking my dry lips. "This is where I leave you," I state, turning towards Potter. His face is pale and ghostlike in the moonlight, and he stops as if into a wall at my words.

"You're— You're not coming with me?" he asks, his voice shaky. I hate him for asking when he already knows the answer.

"No," I respond as coldly and indifferently as I can.

"You'll be killed." Potter states the words so bluntly that I am caught off guard, completely unable to prevent the shivers running down my back. I cannot deny to myself that that is an option. Nevertheless, I put on my best show of confidence for Potter.

"Of course I won't," I drawl. "I didn't use my own wand, they won't be able to trace any other magical signature than Nott's own wand. I will go back to my room and get up in the morning just like any other day. Even if someone were to suspect anything, they won't be able to prove it." I smirk smugly, trying desperately to believe my own words.

Potter stares at me silently for a long moment, apparently uncertain if he should believe me or not. Finally, he sighs, looking at me sadly.

"You do know I love you, right?"

The unexpected words strike something deep inside me, wrapping around my heart so tightly I can't seem to catch my breath. He is right, I did know. But hearing him say it, confirm it… it affects me far more than I could ever admit.

"I know," is all I can say.

He leans in to press a soft kiss to my lips, withdrawing far too soon. A desperate urge awakes in me to grab him and pull him back towards me. Of course, I don't. Instead I cast a look behind me into the darkness and croak:

"You should go."

When I turn back Potter is still staring at me, nodding softly. "…Yeah."

He grabs my hand, squeezing it softly one last time before letting go and stepping past me. A cold feeling takes over my hand as he lets go, a terrible freezing flame spreading from my fingers up my arm to the rest of my body like internal, suffocating hypothermia.

I want to scream at him 'No! Don't go!", but I clamp my mouth shut. But as if he heard my thoughts, he turns around.

"I know you don't love me." His voice is dry and a sad smile has spread on his lips. "But when all of this is over, I'll look for you," he says, and suddenly his smile is all sunshine in spite of the cold moonlight.

"When I win this war, I'll look for you," he repeats softly, fully confident in that what he's saying is true.

Only smiling at him leniently, I don't have the heart to tell him that if he indeed does win this war, even he won't be able to save me from the Dementor's kiss or the dungeons of Azkaban.

He turns away, disappearing silently into the shadows. I watch him as he goes. And I long to follow, to run with him. But I am a Malfoy, I know better than that. I will stay here, where I belong, do what I can for my family. I have already done what I can for Potter.

For Harry.

He was wrong. I do love him, as I know love. No more, no less. But Harry will never hear me say that four letter word.

I will stay here, where I belong. And I will do horrible things. Unforgivable, terrible deeds. So that if Harry does win and the Ministry gets to me, he won't suffer. I will stay in the darkness, engage in this so-called evil, so that when I am prosecuted, Harry will feel no remorse. So that my betrayal won't hurt that badly.

I will stay here and find the me I once was. So that when the world tells him that he hates me, he can believe it.

_finis_


End file.
